Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Glass

It is getting too crowded down here.Drenched in condensationhot, plump breasts squeak like wet ratsagainst the glinting, purple glass.Full lips, fat with bloodgrate on pearly razorsDry tongues claw like sandpaper at neighbours’ shirts.Clothes are melting.Toes, elbows, shoulders fill every nookFresh pinstripes and pipedreams arethrust from the depths relentlesslySalt burning raw skin.Bare fingers have only the space to tickle the polished surface.